


An Agreement

by hhavenh



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhavenh/pseuds/hhavenh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Persistence and dedication to an objective, Renning always used to say. </p><p>Geoffrey'd been little more than a gangly squire then, but the concept applies even now, though perhaps stubbornness is a more apt term when convincing an ill assassin to actually <i>rest</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Agreement

His legs are burning by the time he reaches his chambers. Not that his burden is really all that heavy, but carrying a fully grown man up three flights of stairs isn’t exactly the easiest thing to manage.

The man in question has a fever, of course, and shows absolutely no gratitude for being returned to Geoffrey’s bed. Instead he leans up on his elbows, breaths shallow, the upper edge of his bandanna growing dark with perspiration, “ _Get off!_ "

Geoffrey doesn’t, just pushes him back down and goes for the boots. Not that he thinks he’s likely to get kicked, but Volke might be less inclined to renew his attempts at escape if he’s shoeless.

And Volke even lets him, doesn’t really have a say in the matter. Just mutters foreign obscenities under his breath as his boots and coat are removed, his sheathes and straps unbuckled next. Eventually he’s how Geoffrey left him this morning, small and smothered beneath an old quilt.

The only real issue is that he refuses to stay that way for long.

“I think it’s time we talk.” Geoffrey kicks off his own foot wear and just breathes for a long moment.

There’s a way out of this. He’s sure.

Geoffrey is so very confident that there is something he can do to make the sick man in his bed see reason. He has to be sure, because the only other option is trying him to the frame, and Geoffrey’s so much _more_ confident that Volke will never come near him again if he tries. “Three times you’ve taken off, and three times you’ve passed out before you even got to the courtyard wall.” The mattress dips when he sits on the edge, crossing a leg on his knee. He doesn’t even have the irritation left to snap, his temper already spent during the aftermath of the first escape. “What do I have to do, to avoid a fourth?”

Coughing is the only response he gets, one of those weak fits where Geoffrey can hear the wheezing gasp of barely any air getting in. Volke’s whole body trembles with the force, a shudder beneath the quilt. His hands fist so feebly in the fabric, water gleaming at the corner of his eyes as he turns on his side and coughs into his elbow. The minutes are long before he can breathe again, still quivering as Geoffrey slides a slow palm over his shoulder.

“Help me out,” Geoffrey tries, leaning forward, bracing his arm on the other side of Volke’s body. There's not often that he has the sort of patience as he does at present, though Geoffrey knows himself well enough to be sure it won't last. “Why won’t you just stay? Give it a few days, a week even, without being a fool, and you’d feel so much better.” But Volke doesn’t think like that. Never really has anything in mind past his work and getting it done.

He proves such a breath later, his voice so raw. So torn and full of ache, “Don’t have time.”

“You never do,” Geoffrey sighs, putting a hand through his own bangs, no matter that it doesn’t abate the renewed annoyance pinching the back of his neck. There’s nothing more he can say, that he knows how to say, so he just grabs Volke’s coat and stands, moving to hang it from the corner of his wardrobe.

There’s a fallen bit of parchment on the floor when he turns back for the boots.

Volke notices too, starts coughing again as he reaches for it, something desperate enough in the strain of his fingers that Geoffrey catches the corner of the parchment with his foot and slides it further from the bed.

He has to bend down and snatch it then, since Volke’s apparently contrary enough to try and crawl out of bed to get it back. There’s not even the least bit of fight in him when Geoffrey takes his shoulder and forces him back against the mattress, just a faint tremble in his body and rasped annoyance that isn’t even articulate beneath another coughing fit.

So Geoffrey just pulls the covers back over him and drops into a chair, feet kicked up on the bed as he unfolds the parchment. It’s filled with thick blocks of text, written with the sort of flair that Begnion tends to have in their correspondence.

He doesn’t read it all, a cold depth in his chest, just skips near the end when his eyes start to protest at the smallness of the script. There's something in the haze of the letters that make him sure this isn't the original document, but a copy made from the still wet ink whenever this was created. Still, there’s a decently legible summary at the bottom, what Geoffre can only assume to be kin named as collateral, followed by a bloody signature and a date some fifteen years prior.

That, and a faint sigil that looks near the same as the mark above Volke’s wrist.

Geoffrey clears his throat after a moment and glances up, “How much does your next job pay?”

Volke isn’t even looking at him, on his back with an arm over his eyes. Just looks so pale and softly miserable. He sighs, quiet enough that it’s barely heard, “…Eighteen thousand.”

That…that’s sort of surprising, “Really?”

He shrugs, chest again shuddering as he refuses another fit of coughs. “Just information, no excessive travel, no physical contact with the target.”

Heh. Volke would be the man to give a discount for not actually having to engage with someone.

Still, eighteen thousand would still put a bit of a dent in the yearly total that’s written bold above his name at the bottom of the contract.

Geoffrey chews his lip a moment, though why he’s bothering to pretend to think about this is a mystery. He’s going to do it, might as well make it clear so he doesn’t have to pluck an assassin from the castle grounds again, "What if I give you twenty five thousand to stay?”


End file.
